


Everything That Rises

by jenlee1



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Angst, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mission Fic, Philanthropy Era, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:00:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28724757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jenlee1/pseuds/jenlee1
Summary: It begins – as so many of their misadventures have been wont to do, of late – with an apparently innocuous email.
Relationships: Otacon/Solid Snake
Comments: 16
Kudos: 39





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a follow-up to my previous story, _Taught By Thirst_. 
> 
> The plot should stand on its own, so you don't necessarily need to have read it beforehand. But you can find it here, if you need a refresher: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25138579/chapters/60909607

It begins – as so many of their misadventures have been wont to do, of late – with an apparently innocuous email.

He sees the irony, of course.

“An email, huh.” Snake is quick to point out the obvious. “Great track record with those, recently.”

He doesn’t smile, but there’s a softness in his expression that Otacon has come to recognize. It’s as close as he ever gets to being playful.

This particular missive hits their inbox the old-fashioned way – without the knowledge of the original sender via one of Otacon’s ever-vigilant surveillance programs, trawling the web like a sentient fishing net for keywords that are relevant to their interests. A safer proposition in every way, vs. relying on an anonymous tipster for critical intel.

Granted – as leads go, in this particular case, it’s not much to go on. But it’s utterly devoid of any personal associations or cryptic initials from his childhood, so he counts that as a win. 

“An email,” he confirms. “But not like last time, I promise! Here, take a look.”

Snake peers over his shoulder as Otacon pulls up the relevant material for his perusal, and leans back while he studies the screen.

“Huh.” He squints at it. “From… some law firm, in Washington?”

“Yeah, that’s what it looks like – corporate mergers mostly. Pretty specialized area, but there’s a lot of that in D.C. Which is weird, right? Not too many corporate types looking to get their hands dirty with the kind of stuff we usually do. But, my search bots go where the trail leads… I just follow along.”

The subject line reads, simply:

**RE: MG Ray**

There is no text in the body of the email. No incriminating expressions of intent. No detailed rundown of a nefarious government plot, or list of interested parties. No naming of names. Just a single PDF link, lurking quietly at the bottom of the empty white box like a land mine.

“So,” he continues, warming to his topic a bit. Animated. _Confident_. This is where he earns his keep, and he’s proud of what he’s got. “I’ve been doing some digging. This recipient – the Pinnacle Group – is a private defense contractor based outside Minneapolis. You’ve heard of them, maybe? They deal mostly in armored vehicles that get shipped overseas. Jeeps, Humvees, the usual stuff. ”

The implied ‘ _until now_ ,’ goes unspoken.

Snake grunts, skeptical. 

“What’s the attachment?”

“Well, that’s the million dollar question. It’s encrypted, so I’m still working out the details.” He taps a few keys to pull it up, and indicates the lines of indecipherable gibberish on the page. “It’s… a process. You can’t rush these things.”

“Of course not.”

There is a hint of fond exasperation in this, too.

He ignores it.

“ _But_ , as nearly as I can tell, it looks like a set of… unit numbers, maybe? With a cost attached. Decimal points and currency symbols, anyway. Which – ” he gestures vaguely into the air with his hands; trying to indicate the obvious conclusion. “I mean, you’re the military affairs expert, here. Obviously. But it sounds to me like – ”

“Like the black market for bipedal battle tanks is still going strong.” Snake finishes for him. “At least right now, in the Twin Cities. Any idea what a bunch of suits in D.C. are planning to do with it?”

“Nothing concrete, so far. If I can get the whole thing readable, we might be able to pull some more details – money changing hands, maybe a shipping note if we’re lucky. But, I mean… it’s a pretty safe bet they’re not donating it to Greenpeace.”

He lets the quiet settle, for a moment. Watches his partner weigh the information. Brows knitted together while he thinks, deadly serious now. Snake reaches over his back, and closes the laptop with the air of someone making an easy decision. 

“Well,” he says. “Get packed, then. We’re going to find out.”

******

As they crunch down the gravel drive one last time in their latest rental – a dented 1991 Honda this time, with hand-crank windows and a permanent wet-dog smell – Otacon watches the little house recede in the mirror with a wistfulness that he wasn’t entirely expecting. 

Not for the house, itself. As hideouts went, it had done its job; it was far enough from the main thoroughfare to be discreet and had enough of a wireless signal to work with, most days. The bathroom sink had a tendency to clog, and the old a/c unit in the living room window wheezed like an old man while somehow managing to put out air that felt warmer than the oppressive heat outside – but in the grand scheme of things, these were minor issues. 

It had kept them alive, and that was enough.

No. It’s something else, that he misses already. An easy rhythm, of sorts. A feeling of safety. The longest stretch of peace and quiet they’ve had since the ink dried on the stacks of paperwork for the U.N., what feels like ages ago. A soft golden end to a stifling summer. 

The past few months have been… different. _More_ , somehow, than everything that’s come before.

What have they been, exactly?

Exciting? Inventive? 

_Say it, Hal._

A honeymoon period, in every sense of the word. 

That this “off the grid” stretch – something like bliss; something like _happiness_ , maybe, after the near-perpetual shitstorm his life has always been – was necessitated by the combined efforts of both federal law enforcement and paramilitary hit squads to track down their location, in the wake of the single biggest mission failure they’d yet experienced doesn’t feel like an insurmountable contradiction in terms, to him. 

Like so many other aspects of their existence, as his partner would point out – _it is what it is_. 

This is the way of the world, imperfect though it may be. But perhaps, in the end, all either of them really need is a reason to keep moving forward. Something that matters, in all the tiny impossible cracks between fear and sadness and grief. A bright light, shining under the door.

The mission matters. It does, it always has; but so does _this_. 

Coffee mugs over the morning paper. A shy smile in the kitchen. Warm hands on his waist, and sometimes lower.

He’ll miss the ridiculous little creaking bed, most of all.

Heading on towards November, now, with withering leaves on the windshield. Cold fingers and frosty breath in the early morning sunshine, and it’s time to go back to work

******

Their eventual destination on the outskirts of a city nearly 1,100 miles away is something decidedly different. A week-to-week sublet in a drab, gray apartment building towering over a narrow side street with a glimpse of the St. Croix River a few blocks over was the best they could do on short notice, given the limits of Philanthrophy’s bare-bones housing budget. 

They sit in the car, weighed down by the boneless inertia that creeps in at the end of a long multi-day drive. Full bladders, stiff legs; greasy napkins in the passenger side floorboard. Peering up from the creased city map spread over Snake’s knees through the hazy afternoon sun. It’s an area hit hard by the recent economic downturn, all shuttered doorways and empty shop windows. 

A metro transit bus stops at the corner and disgorges a handful of people. Men in oil-stained jeans. A blank-faced woman walks past, pushing a baby in a cheap hand-me-down stroller. An abandoned shopping cart tilts crookedly on three wheels near the curb, collecting rust.

Otacon is the first to break the silence.

“Well, it looks… homey, I guess. If you squint.”

“Uh-huh.” Snake regards the dilapidated building above them, unimpressed. “Might have to borrow your glasses, for that.” There is a pause while he fishes the key from a folded envelope in his back pocket, checks it against the accompanying note in Mei Ling’s distinctive slanted scrawl. “Sixth floor unit, apparently. Utilities included. Want me to carry you over the threshold?”

“God, please don’t. We’ll stick out enough as it is.”

Between the two of them, they manage to get their boxes up to the entryway in only a couple of heavily-laden trips. There’s an elevator, but it doesn’t work – _naturally_ – and from the look of things, that isn’t likely to change during their occupancy. 

He’s already mentally calculating the total number of stairs between their front door and the sidewalk outside, multiplied by their average weekly number of ‘tactical supply runs’ (Snake’s entirely unironic term for trips to the grocery store to replenish their stock of TV dinners and cigarettes, and an occasional case of beer) before they have the door fully shut and locked behind them, and the answer is every bit as disheartening as he’d feared. 

He eases the last box to the floor – carefully, since it contains both of his spare computer monitors and the only working modem they currently have – and sinks gratefully into a worn polyester armchair that smells vaguely of cat urine, waiting for the feeling to creep back into his knees. 

Snake is already sorting equipment on the kitchen counter, unperturbed by the elevator’s refusal to cooperate; SOCOM loaded, safety engaged, in the top drawer under the microwave for easy access. He watches Otacon puffing like an asthmatic in the little living area by the window with his face carefully expressionless.

“I must have missed the triathlon,” he says. Only his eyebrows hint that he’s anything but innocently puzzled by his partner’s dramatic display of physical exhaustion.

“Oh, hush.” Otacon runs a hand through his hair, straightens his glasses. “You’re enjoying this. I can see it.” 

Snake shrugs, returning his attention to the box on the countertop. “I keep telling you. A regular PT routine would do you good. No time like the present.”

“The universe agrees, apparently,” he says, doleful. “The _sixth floor_. Every day is leg day, from now on.”

Their new abode is everything he’d expected, based on his initial impression from the street – cramped and squalid, with a sour musty odor like the inside of a washing machine that’s been left too long to sit. An unidentifiable stain with a frankly alarming splatter pattern on the living room carpet. Mildew in the grout running through the kitchen floor. 

The furnishings (there _are_ furnishings, which is a plus – they’ve made do with folding chairs and boxes, when needed) are cheap, but serviceable. The lights work, mostly. He’s seen worse.

He heaves himself up, finally. Hauls their bags into the bedroom, averts his eyes from the highly questionable grayish tinge of the bare mattress on old box springs, and heads back to the kitchen for a glass of water as Snake makes his customary circuit of the other rooms, poking his head into every nook and cranny with a heavy flashlight in hand. Closets, cupboards, and crawl spaces all carefully scrutinized.

 _Clear_.

His partner likes to know the terrain they’re working in, even if it’s just 800 square feet of flaking paint and barely functional appliances. Which Otacon supposes is fair, all things considered.

He takes a drink and surveys the kitchen, feeling his heart rate slowly ease down towards normal – or as close is it can get, given the extra-large Sheetz cold brew he’d consumed on the last leg of the trip for his turn in the driver’s seat. It’s a drab affair, even by their usual standards. Cabinets in faded olive-gray that might have been fashionable, once; a layer of dust on top of the fridge that’s thick enough to see without touching. All the cozy charm of a prison cell.

Somewhere off to his left, a toilet flushes. Snake emerges and fills his own glass of water; inspects it critically in the afternoon sunlight for a long beat before deciding, evidently, that the city’s filtration system passes muster. He eyes the moldering, fish-smelling heap of ice cubes in the freezer and dumps them unceremoniously into the sink while Otacon watches.

“So,” he says, replacing the receptacle. “’Homey,’ I think, was the word you used.”

“Well. It, ah… has potential. We could get a houseplant, maybe?”

“Got some here already, looks like.” Snake gestures to the mold gathered in the corners of the windowsill beside the stove. 

“Wonderful. How’s the bathroom?”

“Don’t ask. Just… we need to pick up some roach traps when we go out tomorrow.”

There’s something that could pass for a computer desk in the tiny spare bedroom – a workspace for the previous occupant, evidently – and he claims it straight away for his bevy of technical equipment, sorting through boxes and fiddling with the familiar tangle of cables until the laptop whirs contentedly to life, with its various wires and external parts cascading over the edge towards the floor like some sort of exotic jungle fern. 

Snake unpacks the remainder of their gear while he works, putting the apartment in working order with the sort of brisk efficiency that comes from years of barracks life. Hospital corners on the bedsheets; jeans and sweatshirts, socks and underwear from both duffel bags stuffed neatly into the chest of drawers in less time than it takes Otacon to locate the nearest electrical outlet suitable for a surge protector and remove a few stray mouse droppings from beneath the rolling office chair with a damp paper towel. 

They’re settled on the sofa with a mindless action flick on TV and two Styrofoam cups of ramen by the time it’s fully dark out, going back over what they know about the mysterious Pinnacle Group.

It’s not a lot, so far.

There’s a conspicuous lack of information in the public domain to go on – a few stock photos; generic brick buildings and balding executives, and a NYSE listing that’s almost certainly a front for something more nefarious than a tax-paying, law-abiding private defense contractor. 

The not-so-public domain is shaping up to be more revealing, but the going is slow. 

“The bottom line is – if they’re manufacturing this thing here, we need to know why.” Snake cuts straight to the point, as always. “Who they’re trying to sell it to. And who’s pulling the strings.”

“Agreed.” He yawns, poking contemplatively at the last few noodles in the bottom of his cup. Thinking. “If we can get our hands on the modified construction specs they’re using, that would help narrow it down. And some photos of the actual prototypes, maybe.” He points his plastic spoon at Snake for emphasis. “Nothing too involved, though. Right? No fireworks. Should be a simple in-and-out.”

Snake grunts. 

He takes that for agreement, at least on general principle.

“I’d also like to know who thought Minnesota was a good place to set up a permanent headquarters for anything. People shouldn’t live here in November.” He knows he sounds plaintive, now, but he can’t bring himself to care. Wiggles his sock-covered toes sadly, propped on the coffee table. “Like Antarctica. Or the North Pole.”

“I’m assuming the execs are all in a gated community somewhere, with chauffeurs and private chefs. Ornamental fireplaces. Central heating. They don’t have to take the stairs.” 

He considers this, still faintly disgruntled.

“It smells like my dorm room fridge in here.”

“Open a window. It’s a nice night out.”

“It’s 28 degrees outside. There’s _frost_.” 

“Home is where the heart is, Otacon,” his partner intones, sardonically. Teasing him. “Could always be worse. Listen. My old CO used to say – if you have to sleep in the trenches, the most important thing is who’s standing watch.” He considers, momentarily lost in thought. “That, and a pair of good waterproof boots.”

Otacon stares at him blankly.

“I have no idea what that means.” 

“Means we can get a space heater, for the office.” Snake shrugs. “We were mostly up to our asses in mud and malaria back then, so, you know. My standards have always been pretty flexible.”

With that, he gets up, collects both empty cups for the garbage, and squeezes Otacon’s shoulder in passing before padding matter-of-factly back down the hall. The quiet seeps in again behind him, a tiny bit warmer already.

Different places have different types of quiet. It’s not like Delaware, exactly. No cicadas. Not like Alaska, or New York, or any of the places in between.

But on further reflection, Otacon thinks, perhaps the night sky outside is something nice to look at. Even with the hairline crack in the windowpane facing out over the river in the distance, that makes it hard to see.

Even with the frost.

He makes another pot of coffee, sits down hunched and serious in the little squeaking office chair, and settles in to hunt.


	2. Chapter 2

It takes him just under forty-eight hours of solid digging to realize there’s a problem with the plan.

Well – not a _problem_ , per se. A wrinkle. A minor stumbling block that’s going to make things a bit more complicated. But really, what else is new?

Complications are their specialty. Or at least, it feels that way sometimes.

Issue number one: If they want to have a chance in hell of stopping the purchase from going down, they need to know the details. What’s being built at this particular facility, and why? Every new Metal Gear variation they’ve encountered over the past couple of years has been “new and improved” in some way, and analyzing the design is often the key to figuring out what it’s going to be used for.

Hence, they need access to the Pinnacle Group’s computer system.

_Fine._

Ordinarily, pulling targeted packets of data off of a hard drive is a laughably straightforward endeavor. It’s figuring out where to look in the first place that’s the hard part. Once they know what they’re after, the actual mechanics of snooping through a protected filing system present few real challenges. 

This is the entire purpose of his role in Philanthropy; his _raison d’etre_ for much of his life, in fact, and he’s proud to say he does it well.

Sometimes he can hack his way in through an open port, install a backdoor entry point, and get what he needs without involving “boots on the ground” at all. In other cases – more typical, given that most of their targets are government facilities or paranoid fringe groups with a strong firewall system – Snake has to carry a USB drive or other portable device into the building and physically plug it into the main computer terminal in order to get him access. Once that’s done, he can peruse the data via codec and a keyboard from behind a desk at home, or in a pinch, from a nondescript cargo van parked well outside the hot zone. 

Simple enough.

This is how they prefer to work. Each of them doing what they do best; utilizing their own complementary skill sets and staying the hell out of each other’s way. It’s a symbiotic relationship in every sense of the word – smooth and well-choreographed, and highly effective. Not _safe_ , strictly speaking, but it’s as close to foolproof as they can get given the inherent risks that come with being internationally-wanted terrorists.

It gets the job done, and that’s the point. 

_Usually_.

Which brings him to issue number two: Whoever designed the cybersecurity protocols on this place, they’ve done a fucking impressive job.

After spending the better part of two days poking at the company’s internal network from every conceivable angle, he’s forced to admit that he’s running out of workable remote access options. He can get what they need – because there’s _always_ a way – but not from their apartment, and not from a rental van outside. 

It’s going to take real-time, on-site analysis and some skilled work on the fly. At the actual computer terminal. 

Hands on the keyboard, inside the building.

Up close and personal.

He doesn’t relish the idea. In fact, if he’s being honest, it scares the living daylights out of him. If he’d ever had any illusions at all about whether his temperament was suited for dodging angry men with guns, the Foxhound takeover at his previous place of employment had thoroughly dispelled them. So now, the notion of voluntarily venturing into a secure complex staffed with guards who are likely to shoot first and ask questions later on a highly illegal errand is already giving him heart palpitations. 

His partner, he suspects, will like it even less. Snake’s half of the equation is already difficult enough without the added challenge of a civilian tagging along behind him. Not to mention working blind, without the benefit of an extra pair of eyes outside for the radar and security system.

It’s a risky scenario all around – but by its very existence, Philanthropy is playing a dangerous game. They’ve always known that.

Sometimes, there are no good options.

(This, too, feels like the story of his life.)

This uninspiring train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the front door opening, accompanied by a blast of cold air from the hallway that momentarily breaks his concentration.

“Me,” Snake calls out from the living room – somewhat unnecessarily, Otacon thinks, but you can never be too careful. The door shuts, deadbolt re-engaged with a muffled click, and his partner appears moments later in the office doorway.

“Well? Got us a master plan, yet?”

“Ha. Doing my best.” An honest answer. Rueful, for whatever it’s worth. Stretching his arms up towards the ceiling, curling backwards, until his back makes a satisfying popping sound. “They’re not making it easy on us, this time.”

Snake pulls off his cheap drugstore sunglasses, looking faintly ridiculous in the knit hat he always wears to go running in populated areas with his hair poking out around the ears. Sweating under the high performance fleece of his winter jacket, still breathing hard and Otacon catches himself just a bit _stuck_ , staring in appreciation. Mesmerized. Two years now, and his partner in “post-workout mode” is still all but guaranteed to make him weak in the knees. 

He feels the subconscious twitch of an embarrassing, silly grin wanting to sneak out before he swivels the chair to plant his feet back under the desk with an emphatic thump, and turns his attention back to the project at hand.

 _Focus_. God, he’s worse than a teenage schoolgirl.

“Takes longer the more you nag me about it, though. At this rate it’ll be Christmas before we get anything done.”

There is no bite behind the words, and Snake knows an opening when he sees it.

He’s there at the desk, then, behind him. Bending down, wanting to be close the way he always does in the post-run endorphin haze when his head is clear and his muscles are warm and loose. Pleasantly tired. Feeling good. He drapes his forearms loosely over Otacon’s shoulders, leaning forward over the back of the chair to nuzzle lazily at his neck. 

“Hmm.” The corner of Otacon’s mouth tugging up again, traitorous. “Did I stutter? You know, some of us are trying to work around here.”

He keeps his eyes fixed resolutely on the screen, determined not to budge. His body has other ideas.

“My mistake,” Snake says, pausing to mouth softly along his lower jaw. Otacon shivers; lets his eyes fall closed for just a moment. Tilting his head to one side for better access, against his better judgment. “Must have been some other engineer who woke me up this morning with a hard-on. Been thinking about it all day.”

Soft breath on his ear, questioning. An invitation. It feels like everything he’s ever wanted, _still_ , the way it did that very first night, and he envies his partner this, sometimes – the way physical affection comes so easy to him. A hand on his shoulder. A kiss for no reason, absent-minded, on the back of his neck.

“Anyway,” Snake concludes, voice dropping to that particular low, gravelly register that always curls straight through to the base of his spine. “Going to grab a shower. Room for two, if you can tear yourself away.”

_Dammit._

He shouldn’t.

There are details to work out, still. 

Satellite images that need sorting through. Topography maps. Equipment checked and cross-checked, if they’re going to make their move this week.

But his feet have felt like blocks of ice all afternoon under two pairs of socks, fingertips stubbornly gray-white on the keyboard, and the insistent bulge in his sweatpants is showing no sign of resolving on its own.

Listening to the groan of old pipes and the steaming hiss of hot water through the half-open bathroom door, it takes him all of thirty seconds or so to decide that perhaps he’s earned a quick break, after all.

******

“I’ve got, ah… a few ideas we can go over, tonight.”

He shucks off his clothing as quickly as he can manage. Shirt inside-out over his head; pants, underwear, and socks peeled off together in one fell swoop to get it over with. Partly because this is often the hardest part, for him, even when no one’s watching – but also because there are goosebumps standing out all over his bare skin, and the warm air billowing out from behind the shower curtain feels like heaven.

He steps into the tub and pulls the flimsy plastic liner shut behind him. God, it’s amazing. Like being in a sauna. His toes unclench for what feels like the first time that day. Constricted capillaries relaxing, grateful for the sudden return of circulation.

“The site is only about twelve miles from here, from what I can tell. Nothing official on the map, of course, but I’ve scrounged up some aerial photos that look pretty clear.”

“Mm. We can go do some recon on it in the morning.”

Snake’s back is to him, head bent forward under the shower stream with water chasing itself in rivulets down the hard, muscular lines of his shoulders. He watches for a moment, temporarily struck dumb. Then forgets about the Pinnacle Group entirely as his partner leans back; _teasing_ , deliberate, to press his ass firmly against Otacon’s groin.

There is a part of him that still freezes, sometimes. Knows what Snake is asking for, what he loves more than anything else – wants slick fingers inside him, probing; Otacon’s cock nudging up between his buttocks – and _God_ , he wants it too. Knows how good it would feel, with his partner groaning against the wet tile and rocking back against him, but his body refuses to move. 

He swallows, self-conscious – that last step forward, too difficult today. Too _still_ , too worried. 

Hesitates a moment too long.

It’s all right.

Snake has never held this against him, when it happens. 

He turns around, now; fingers splayed at Otacon’s waist, searching, watching his face while he breathes. Through the thick haze of steam fogging the air, without his glasses, it’s hard to make out his partner’s expression, but he’s seen it often enough to know.

_Okay?_

He closes the distance to bump their foreheads together; apologetic, reassuring – _okay_ – as Snake huffs out an affectionate breath against his jaw. Slides a rough, expert hand over his cock, and it’s all he can do to stay standing.

“Ah, _fuck_.” He gasps out nonsense words against Snake’s neck, loud in the tiny bathroom; feels the answering growl in Snake’s chest as his partner redoubles his efforts. Closes his eyes and hangs on for dear life.

He would never accuse Snake of being a romantic in the bedroom – or the shower, or on the sofa late at night when they’re both feeling frisky – although he can certainly act the part when he wants to. But he’s unfailingly diligent in his attention, devoting himself to the task of pleasing Otacon with a single-minded focus that never fails to make him blush. 

Snake is breathing as hard as he is, now. Rubbing himself against Otacon’s thigh; close to the edge, wanting to come. Lines up his body with Otacon’s until he can grip both of them together, and strokes them both to completion under the spray with the two of them panting in the same shared space and holding tight to the slippery soap ledges with their fingers to stay upright. 

It’s awkward and inelegant, and for a heart-stopping instant he loses his balance, foot slipping on the film of soap suds and shampoo at the back of the tub. Snake grins against his lips and tightens his hold, one arm steady around his waist and he yelps out a laugh as ungainly as he is; feels safe and happy and _sure_ , for the space of a few precious seconds with the rest of the world at bay. 

He’s thoroughly warm, now. And then some.

Standing dazed and just a little over-heated, watching the mess swirl neatly down the drain, Otacon can’t immediately recall what it was that he was so apprehensive about.

 _Later_ , he thinks. We’ll talk about it later tonight.

******

Even with a detailed, point-by-point explanation of the network security measures they’re dealing with and a clear outline of his reasoning – which is impeccable, as much as he wishes it weren’t – the proposed mission plan goes over every bit as poorly as he’d anticipated.

“No,” Snake says flatly.

He blinks.

“Oh. Okay, then… no worries. I’ll just teach you how to analyze the on-site setup and breach the firewall, and you can handle the data transfer yourself.” He spreads his hands on either side of his bowl; palms up, eminently reasonable. “Or we can just scrap the whole thing, if you’d rather?”

Snake stares him down, not the slightest bit amused.

Dinner that evening is boiled fettuccine noodles with jarred Ragu sauce, which represents the sum total of all he knows how to make without using the microwave. His partner has long opined that adding a largely arbitrary amount of salt and pepper to the saucepan while it warms on the stove does not constitute “cooking” in the traditional sense, but it still feels like a step up from frozen dinners and ramen.

He tries again.

“Look. I, ah… may not have conveyed this with as much emphasis as I meant to, but I would really prefer not to go traipsing through a paramilitary complex full of armed guards, either. Not exactly my specialty, you know?” He toys nervously with his fork, hoping to break the tension, but Snake sits frozen like a statue across the table. “So, I mean. If you’ve got a better alternative, just say the word.”

He stabs at the pasta and shovels another bite into his mouth, for lack of anything else to do. Chews and swallows, taking his time.

His partner still hasn’t raised any specific concerns, and he can’t figure out why. 

He’d expected some pushback, of course. Practical objections. The added logistical challenges of coordinating the operation without anyone offsite to keep a bird’s eye view on everything, the difficulty of concealing two creeping figures in the shadows instead of one. There are reasons – a whole host of entirely valid reasons, in fact – that infiltration missions are done solo. 

But Snake, oddly, isn’t citing any of them.

No. The sticking point is something else. The flat, emphatic refusal; the hard set of Snake’s face, the _stillness_ , and he knows in a sudden rush of insight what it is. 

What it must be. 

His face flushes hot, and he has to look away.

And _of course_ , why wouldn’t Snake think of him – _him_ , specifically, not just any generic civilian – as a hindrance in the field? A burden. A dangerous liability, even; ready to lose his nerve and blow their cover at the worst possible moment. He’d code-named himself after a fucking anime convention, for God’s sake. And lost control of his bladder when given half a chance to do something brave.

He’d like to believe that he’s grown a lot over the past two years. But given the first impression he’d made at Shadow Moses, not to mention the recent disaster in New York courtesy of his piss-poor judgment, it’s not an unreasonable assumption.

His partner is nothing if not pragmatic. As he should be.

Still, it hurts a bit. 

“Listen,” he says, finally. “I feel like you’re not giving me much credit, here. Just – in and out. No alarms, no contact. If you get me where we need to go, I can handle the rest. I know I can’t… I mean, I’m not _good_ at this part, not like you, but – ”

He’s rambling, now, and Snake cuts him off before he can finish.

“I know you can.” There is an intensity in his voice that Otacon has rarely heard, outside of barked commands to hapless enemy soldiers with a gun in his hand. He sounds so utterly serious about this, in fact, that Otacon could almost believe it’s the truth. “For fuck’s sake, Hal. That’s not the issue.”

And then, once again, he stops.

Otacon watches as he searches for the words he wants, clearly thrown off balance by the entire conversation. It’s an unusual sight. Snake doesn’t blather on about his thoughts in tactical planning sessions the way he does, but he has very definite opinions about what works and what doesn’t, and isn’t afraid to give them. 

At last, he concludes:

“The issue is – that’s not how we do things. It never has been. I don’t want…” He swallows; shakes his head, hard, like he’s trying to convince himself of something. “ _You_ don’t do field work. We’re not starting that now.” 

This might be true, as far as it pertains to Philanthropy’s operations historically, but it isn’t really an argument. Otacon cocks his head. Puzzled, just a bit. 

He chooses his next words carefully.

“I don’t _want_ to do field work. But I think it’s our only option, this time.” Snake doesn’t answer, and he presses on. “Look, I know it makes your job harder. I know there are risks. Just… is it a bigger risk than not getting the data we need? If that’s the main reason we’re doing this – ” He pauses to wave one hand in the air between them, helplessly, trying to encompass whatever the hell it is they’re actually trying to do in the vague expansivity of the gesture. “Well, _this_. All of this, in the first place?”

_Why else are we here?_

_If we’re not going to do what needs done, then why bother?_

Silence.

This is the clincher, and he knows it. 

Always – _always_ , at the end of the day – the mission is what counts.

His partner watches him with trapped, hard eyes. It’s an odd look that seems out of place at the dinner table, drinking Dr. Pepper out of coffee mugs with the leftover alfredo sauce turning dry and crusty on the stove. Like he wants to explain something; wants to cross the space between them, take Otacon by the shoulders and make him _understand_ , but can’t figure out how.

And then, finally, he nods.

Picks up his bowl, a few stray noodles still clinging half-heartedly to the sides, and takes it into the kitchen. Scrapes what’s left into the garbage can with an air of finality and disappears down the hall to the bedroom without another word.

A tacit acquiescence, or as close as he can hope for under the circumstances. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding; takes off his glasses to rub at his eyes, suddenly tired.

_All right._

Snake will get them in and out.

His job, now, is to make sure the trip isn’t wasted.


	3. Chapter 3

The last twenty-four hours leading up to the start of a mission are always the most nerve-wracking. 

When they’d first started Philanthropy, he’d been nervous about all of it. Not just the field operations, where he watched his computer screen sitting cross-legged in some squalid motel room and held Snake’s life in his hands, but the less dramatic stuff, too. The back-alley exchanges of equipment or intel with questionable contacts; drive-by recon of a sensitive site in an unmarked vehicle; and even trips to the grocery store in dirty ball caps pulled low, stiff and unnatural with Snake’s elbow nudging him to _relax_ , act natural, it’s fine. 

A pack of cigarettes and half a dozen TV dinners, and let’s go home.

Always fine.

Cloak-and-dagger life didn’t come naturally to him at first. But he’s adapted. Nowadays, he takes most things in stride.

Still. It’s only natural, he thinks, to be a bit on-edge when you’re putting the last finishing touches on a plan that could get them both arrested – or get someone killed, or could possibly even result in a nuclear detonation and/or an international incident – if it doesn’t go right.

So, yeah. Butterflies. 

Maybe a little more than normal, this time.

But there comes a point, inevitably, when there’s nothing more to be done. The i’s are dotted and the t’s are crossed. He has everything he can get (which isn’t _enough_ , never feels like enough, but it’s the best they can do). Satellite images of the facility, payroll records, property taxes paid for the past five years. Photos of the outer fence and surrounding land from every conceivable angle, as near as they could approach in daylight without drawing suspicion.

_In and out_ , he tells himself. _No contact_.

In and out, and done.

Again. Still. Like a mantra.

It’s a good plan, but that’s the thing… they’re all good plans. Every plan they’ve ever put together has been perfectly sound and reasonable and damn near bulletproof, at least on paper, and that doesn’t mean they always work. 

Regardless – there’s nothing else he can do with it tonight, so he powers down his sturdy little laptop and closes the lid with an affectionate click; pats it once, letting his hand linger on the warm plastic casing. _Rest up, old friend._ They all need it, tonight. He yawns, and heads off to do the same.

Wandering into the kitchen to pour his long-cold cup of coffee down the sink, he’s surprised to see a light on over the stove. Even more surprised to find Snake sitting bleary-eyed at the creaky little table, with his own indecipherable long-hand notes spread out in front of him and a handful of empty Heineken bottles shoved to one side, gleaming like sentries.

He doesn’t drink much, anymore; not like this, alone at 3 am. 

Otacon approaches, cautious.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Headache.” Snake glances up in acknowledgment. Downs another swallow of beer, oddly pensive. “Already took something for it. Just needed to get up and move around. Do something else for a while.”

He rubs at his eyes with one hand, absently, in a way that makes Otacon think this might be true.

It isn’t the whole story, he’s certain, but it’s more than he used to get in the early days and it feels like shaky ground tonight already. He doesn’t push for the rest; just sidles up to the table – slowly, as if moving through a minefield – and stands there watching. Listens to the thump of water pipes, the flush of a toilet somewhere on the floor above. The sounds of nighttime in a drafty old building with neighbors all around, oblivious to the acts of domestic terrorism being plotted under their shared roof.

It’s reassuring, in its way.

Beside him, his partner shifts a little. Clearly exhausted. Doesn’t speak.

Snake has always been troubled by dreams, on occasion, or by the insistent throbbing ache of old scars that assert themselves in bed when his body tries to rest; has always been prone to introspection and paranoia in the wee hours of the night. There is something about the dark that makes him think too much, or remember things better left alone. 

Less so now than when Otacon first knew him, that first vodka-soaked Alaskan winter, but still. Old habits die hard.

Finally, Snake clears his throat. 

“The hard drive data isn’t mission critical. We can reconstruct a lot of it from photos, if I can get some close-ups.”

_And, there it is._

“Yeah…” Otacon winces a bit at this, lets his tone convey what needs to be said. “I mean, it’s not the same as having actual specs. If we want to know what their endgame is, we need the details.”

He reaches out, hesitant at first, and puts a hand on Snake’s head; cards the dark hair into unruly sections, scratching lightly with his fingernails over the scalp. Snake lets out a breath, relaxes a little against his hip. This is new enough, still, that he can’t quite believe it’s real. Can’t believe he’s allowed to touch what he wants to, for reassurance or comfort or no reason at all.

It feels like a secret, something safe, standing there in the quiet half-dark and he’s speaking again without ever really intending to. Keeps his voice soft; as soft as his hand in Snake’s hair, still stroking. 

“I wish you’d tell me, when you’re hurting.”

“I’ve spent the last fifteen years letting people shoot at me, in places I’m not supposed to be. Something hurts pretty much all the time. I’m used to it. Nothing you can do, anyway.”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t try. I can do this, at least.” He traces his hand along the back of Snake’s neck, putting steady pressure at the base of the skull with his thumb and forefinger until his partner makes a sound somewhere low in his throat; lets his head fall forward to give him better access, eyes closed. 

He thinks about drifting towards sleep in the little Delaware house with Snake bruised and sore beside him. Tired, the way he looks tonight. Startled at the careful brush of fingers on his back.

It hurt then, and still does. There’s something else he wants to say. 

“You’re not… that,” he whispers at last. Hesitant, groping for the words. “Not what you think you are. Just a tool to get things done. You’ve never been that, to me.”

Snake is quiet for what feels like a long time. 

Finally, a strong hand comes up to grip the inside of his thigh. Not rubbing or squeezing; not a lead-in, or a suggestion. Not tonight. Just rests there, steady and warm.

A question, wordless. Asked and answered.

Maybe that’s enough, for now.

“I’m heading to bed,” he says, finally. Wants to do more – thinks for a fleeting, terrified second about leaning down to kiss his partner; easy, just like that. The crown of his head, or a quick brush across the lips. A hand down the back of his T-shirt to feel the warmth of bare skin.

He steps back, reluctant, and lets his hand fall away. Rubs at the bridge of his nose under his glasses.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

_In and out, and done._

_No contact._

“Supposed to get colder by morning. Get the extra blanket from the closet, if you want it.” Snake knows him too well. “I’ll be there in a bit.”

******

The facility itself is everything he might have expected, for an off-the-books black site manufacturing classified weapons systems for sale to the highest bidder. No frills, no identifying signage, and no attempt at making things look friendly for the public. Just a plain drop gate and a stone-faced guard, with “No Trespassing” posted in wide block letters at regular intervals along the surrounding fence. It’s not a place that welcomes visitors.

Though it’s only a few miles outside city limits, the surrounding terrain has the effect of making it feel much more remote – wooded hills with heavy underbrush, accessible only by an unmarked dirt road winding up through the trees from the two-lane highway between Somerset and Osceola. 

Which suits them just fine.

Up the road just after dark, headlights off. They find a break in the tree line a hundred yards out, deep enough to hide the car, and hoof the remaining distance over the hill on foot. It’s a bit of a hike, around to the side to stay clear of the cameras and watchful eyes of the night shift out front, and he’s shivering a bit by the time they emerge from the woods – even in his heaviest sweatshirt and thermals underneath his jeans, laptop case slung over his shoulder; even with Snake watching him side-eyed with one eyebrow raised to imply an uncharitable assessment of his ability to brave the elements.

At the moment, he’s just grateful it isn’t raining. 

“Don’t say it,” he whispers indignantly, as they approach the fence. “We can’t all be super soldiers who never get cold, can we?”

“Gets colder than this, at M.I.T. in November.”

“At M.I.T., I stayed inside.”

Snake snorts at that, flashes a quick half-grin in the dark – a rare unguarded moment and for an instant, crouching there in the leaves while his partner works open an entry point with a battered set of wire cutters, he sees the appeal. Feels what Snake must feel when he’s in his element; how he must have felt at Shadow Moses, and all the times before – buzzing on adrenaline and nicotine and _purpose_ , and whatever else they used to shoot him up with before they sent him out. 

He’d said yes to Philanthropy for a reason, and it wasn’t just the naked sincerity of Otacon’s pitch. 

Their methods might be different, now – an understatement if there ever was one – but this is something that hasn’t changed, for Snake. The laser focus on his target, the smooth competence that comes of being very good at what he does. Hand steady on the gun, eyes up. Chasing it like a drug.

Everything that Otacon has ever been good at is the polar opposite of this.

Still.

Tonight, just a bit, he feels it too.

Then Snake is stepping back from the fence, all business; jerking his head to motion him through, and they’re in.

Across the grass to the largest building, staying to the shadowed parts of the courtyard. The patrols outside are predictable, at least; the men bored but unfailingly regular, moving in pairs back and forth in tandem with the lights at the gate. Snake moves with practiced ease from one pool of darkness to the next, and he follows. 

There is a moment of uncertainty as he fishes the jury-rigged key card from his back pocket – the same half-terrified squeezing in his chest that he always feels, at the moment of truth when his handiwork either comes through or it doesn’t – but the lock beeps reassuringly, as always, and they slip through without a hitch.

So far, so good.

The building itself is a maze of lookalike corridors and they don’t have a map to work from, so they start at the nearest corner and work their way inward. There’s a reassuring sort of logic to it, stepwise and methodical – checking office doors as they pass, counting the steps from one end to the other; tracking a path in their heads – and the sheer mundanity of their surroundings is enough to allow his toes to begin unclenching themselves inside his shoes.

No blaring alarms. 

No mangled bodies strewn across the hall, and no otherworldly figures with samurai swords flickering in and out of thin air.

_This_ , at least, he can do.

The complex is empty apart from sporadic night patrols at this hour, and with the imposing barbed wire barricades and men with guns safely out of sight outside, it feels like any other office building after closing time. All half-hearted fluorescent light and industrial disinfectant, with the low hum of filtered water coolers and Xerox machines on standby. The metallic squeak of a janitor’s cart, somewhere off in the distance.

Corners and intersections pose the greatest danger, and Snake makes a wary sweep of each new area before they move forward, ranging ahead with steps that make no discernable sound even in the echoing quiet of a long, empty hall. He flattens himself against the wall each time until his partner returns; ducks behind a stack of boxes or a wayward filing cabinet, holding his breath as if that might help make him less visible. 

He’s operating on the assumption that the computer lab will be in the central part of the structure, away from prying eyes and possible window-related security breaches the way his offices at Armstech always were – down in the bowels of the building, in places so devoid of natural light it was impossible to tell what time it was. The natural habitat of engineers the world over, more conducive to all-night work sessions fueled by Ritalin and cold pizza than 4 pm executive meetings with espresso and green tea.

In that respect, The Pinnacle Group holds true to form.

The lab is as dutifully plain as an equivalent room in any academic institution or corporate headquarters – so much so that he feels almost at home, for an instant. A handful of work desks sit in a haphazard semi-circle, each with its own faux-leather swivel chair. It’s a neat, tidy space without a speck of excess dust; well-maintained, but utilitarian in the extreme. 

The computers themselves are state-of-the-art, with their sleek gleaming towers and wide screens for easy viewing of everything from mechanical diagrams to finely rendered hi-res images, and he approaches one with an admiring hand on its shining black surface.

Snake takes in the array of monitors, nonplussed. 

“How do you know which one we’re looking for?

“As long as they’re all on the same internal network, it doesn’t really matter.” He slides into one of the chairs and taps experimentally at the keyboard, waking it from hibernation mode. The hard drive whirs to life. “They’ve got good funding, that’s for sure. I haven’t worked with anything this nice since the early stuff on REX.”

“Some things never change, I guess. Our tax dollars at work.”

Snake gives the hallway outside a careful once-over, again, and lingers in the doorway. 

“If this is where the project leads do their thing, it’s a pretty good bet the whole RAY team is based in this sector. Smaller footprint, that way.”

Otacon nods, absently.

“Probably, yeah. They had us all grouped together on one floor. So if we want to try and get a look at what they’re actually turning out – ” He stops, momentarily distracted. The computer beeps approvingly. “ _There_. Jesus. These guys know their stuff.”

“There’s only one more hallway between here and the next wing, looks like. Just around the corner. I’m not much help with...” Snake waves a hand vaguely in the direction of what Otacon is doing, at the desk. “ _This_.”

An understatement, to say the least. 

_Divide and conquer._

Anything that gets them back home in time for some hot soup and a couple episodes of Mushi-Shi before bed is a win, as far as he’s concerned. He wants a shower, and a Xanax, and a solid eight hours of sleep – not necessarily in that order.

“Go for it. This is going to take a few minutes, anyway.”

He unzips the nylon bag at his hip and gets to work.

It’s easier to concentrate on a delicate task without anyone fidgeting over his shoulder, anxious to move on to other things, so the empty quiet in his partner’s wake is something of a relief. He pulls out his battered old laptop, external SSD, and a set of LAN cables and makes short work of connecting everything to the shiny marvel of computing technology on the desk in front of him. 

Easy, peasy.

There won’t be time right now to sort through everything that might be useful – that could take hours, easily; longer if the good stuff is encrypted – but fortunately, he doesn’t need to. He pops in the flash drive containing his most reliable manual override program, and gives himself admin access with a few additional keystrokes. 

From there, the rest is simple. There are some fairly sophisticated safeguards in place to prevent the hard drive data from being cloned onto another device, but he didn’t cut his teeth hacking the FBI’s security systems for nothing. He sits back, pleased, as he watches the progress bar in the lower left corner of his laptop screen creep slowly towards 100%.

In his ear, Snake’s voice comes in low and gruff.

“No sign of the actual manufacturing area so far. Might be in another building, depending on the scale they’re working with.” The sound of barely-there friction, gloved fingers over wood. “Got some crates stacked up in the hallway, though. Looks like they’re ready to ship out.”

“Ship out to where?”

“Not sure. No labels yet, and no manifest. Probably sitting under a pile of papers in someone’s desk drawer, but we don’t have time for that if we want to be out before shift change.”

Otacon chews his lip, thinking. Then –

“Oh, hey! What about those GPS trackers? Do you still have the one we stuck in your side pocket?”

A set of tiny portable tracking devices had been his latest pet project, and he’s inordinately proud of them even though it remains to be seen how reliable they might be for practical use. Weighing in at less than an ounce, each transmitter is a bit thicker than a postage stamp and not much larger in overall dimensions, with a waterproof adhesive backing that’s nearly impossible to scrape off once applied without taking an unsightly chunk out of the surface underneath. 

(He’d learned this the hard way, in the initial testing phases using their kitchen countertop.)

The device transmits a continuous GPS locator signal, and also provides a close range audio feed of the area it’s in via a tiny microphone not much larger than a grain of rice. The entire thing is waterproof and powered via a self-contained battery system that’s capable of functioning for up to 36 hours after activation, which is a pretty impressive feat considering the signal strength it’s putting out. If he does say so himself.

With the tanker debacle still fresh in their minds, Snake had correctly guessed the reasoning behind his sudden obsession with putting together what amounted to a high-tech distress beacon, and given him some gentle ribbing about it. Otacon’s response was simple – if he needed to fish his unconscious partner out of a freezing river in a rainstorm ever again, he damned well wasn’t going to do it blind. The fact that it might also be useful for tracking other things in their line of work was an added bonus. 

Snake had slipped the thing into the built-in kit compartment on the suit’s left side, and there the matter rested. 

Today, it seems, his mother-hen paranoia just might come in handy.

“Yeah, I’ve got it.” A pause, while Snake follows his train of thought. “On one of the crates, you think? Won’t transmit long enough to give us much.”

“Sure, but, I mean… it’s better than nothing, right? If they move them in the next day or so, we might get a read on the shipping facility they’re using.”

He can picture his partner’s shrug without trying. Snake defers to his expertise when it comes to technological matters in the field with an easy, unquestioning acceptance that has always frightened him a bit.

“Good enough for me.” A short lull, while Snake presumably fiddles with the rubber backing that covers the adhesive, checks the placement, and activates the transmitter. “All set. Heading back now.”

Done, and done.

He allows himself to think, for a ridiculously ill-advised moment or two, that he’d worried himself sick over all of this for nothing.

It’s perhaps ten seconds later when he hears the muffled _thunk_ of the door handle behind him, a bit louder than he might have expected. Then silence, for a moment – enough to have felt odd, maybe, if he hadn’t been so engrossed in his task. 

_Download complete_. 

Heavy footsteps approach, brisk on the tiled floor.

“Perfect timing,” he says without turning around. “I’m just about finished.”

And then, for the first time in his life, he understands the sensation that people refer to as blood running cold in their veins.

“What’s your name, bud? How the fuck did you get in here?”

He had not imagined that the sound of a stranger’s voice could be so utterly disorienting. Authoritative, sharp – a voice accustomed to giving orders. An impersonal grip on his shoulder, uncomfortably tight. 

_Shit_.

He reaches for the laptop cables, guilty – as if it matters, at this point – and freezes in place at the distinctive, unmistakable click a few inches behind his left ear. He can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times he’s ever handled a firearm, but he’s heard Snake flick the safety off of his own weapons often enough to be familiar with the sound.

Something metallic nudging none-too-gently at the back of his neck. It feels colder than it ought to. 

“Hey, I’ve got unauthorized personnel down here in 116. Some guy in a hoodie, looks like he walked in off the street. Yeah. Thanks.”

A radio crackles in acknowledgment.

There is a sudden movement behind him, then. He starts to turn, reflexively, then stops; frozen to the spot, holding his breath. Doesn’t want to look. Waits for the bullet, or the crack of something hard against his skull.

It’s over in seconds.

A grappling of bodies, nearly silent – an unfamiliar intake of breath, the flash of something sharp in his peripheral vision. A sickening, wet noise like a turkey’s wishbone snapped in two and he staggers forward, _finally_ , in revulsion as much as fear. Wonders for an elongated, terrible moment if he’s going to vomit, right there in the middle of this pristine workspace, and then realizes with a creeping edge of hysteria like crackled glass in the tips of his fingers that his squeamish stomach is probably the least of their worries.

When he can breathe again – when the gray dots have mostly cleared from his vision and his ears are once more attempting to process sounds – the little room is still up-and-down on its axis. Still smelling faintly of Lysol and reheated eggrolls and feeling far too much like a basement office in the Bering Sea.

The cold metal sting at the back of his head is gone.

There is something warm on his neck, the side of his face – droplets, streaks, and he scrubs at it with one hand; comes away with his palm red and slick, blinking stupidly as Snake materializes in front of him, holding him out at arm’s length with his voice like sandpaper over raw skin.

“ _Where_?”

It takes a moment for him to understand the question.

“Nowhere.” He tries to swallow past the sudden, suffocating tightness in his throat; stares past Snake’s shoulder at the gleaming desktops and the blinking green light on his portable hard drive instead of the still form on the floor against the wall, smudged the color of burgundy wine.

_Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look._

“It’s… n-not mine.”

His partner’s gaze sweeps over the rest of his body; flat, professional. It’s chilling, almost – these eyes he doesn’t know; the _soldier_ , taking in the details with a ruthless efficiency he’s rarely glimpsed up close – but the hand on his neck is gentle. A careful touch on his jaw, turning his head, tilting it back to make sure. Fingers at the pulse point on his throat, as if by accident.

_It’s okay._

_We’re both okay._

This is the truth, and he breathes it in like oxygen underwater. Chokes on it, almost. 

Forces himself to believe it. 

There is a look on Snake’s face, just for a moment; hand on the side of his neck, leaning close. An expression he’s never seen. Something he can’t quite read, flickering out of focus like smoke between his fingers – and it’s _this_ , more than gun or the cold, hard voice, that frightens him.

Dimly, he registers the distant crackle of radio static. Urgent voices, questioning. 

They need to move. 

He startles as if awaking from a dream as Snake’s grip closes hard around his upper arm, mask firmly back in place.

“Watch the cameras,” he says, low in his ear. Deadly serious. “Keep your head down. Slow and quiet.”

Out of the lab, and it all feels different now.

The hallway outside is still in a way that prickles the hairs at the back of his neck; like something alive, holding its breath. A door slams in the distance, one man shouting to another, and he flinches involuntarily at the sound.

Snake guides him with a practiced hand on his back.

_Smooth. Steady._

_Safe._

A left turn at the end of the hall. Through an unlocked door into a darkened kitchenette area while boot soles converge on the tiled floor outside, then fade away.

Another turn. He tries to keep track of their path, but it all blurs together; walls in hospital beige, an endless series of doors. His job is simply to _move_ , now. To be guided. His legs function without any apparent input from his brain. He clutches tight to the laptop bag at his chest, and surrenders to the dizzying blur of momentum propelling him forward.

The goal in view, finally; an exterior door with its lit red sign.

EMERGENCY EXIT: USE IN CASE OF FIRE 

ALARM WILL SOUND

They’re moving carefully, still. Silent steps on the waxed tile floor, but time does strange things in moments of terror. Distorted by alterations in the body’s oxygen and CO2 levels, alternately stretched and compressed with physiologic fluctuations in heart rate and blood pressure. He knows all this, in the way that every hard science major knows it, but it doesn’t seem real – takes him off-guard, all the same. An unearthly feeling, like swimming through sand. Pushing against an invisible current to reach the flashing beacon in the distance.

There is a sound from somewhere behind them, like the crack of a whip, and Snake grunts. 

His movement falters for no more than half a second; a quick hitch that Otacon feels rather than sees, and then he’s being pressed hard against the wall with his ears still ringing and his partner’s body in front of his. Snake fires two shots in quick succession back the way they came, and something heavy hits the floor.

They run.

The night air is colder than he’d remembered, or maybe the temperature has dropped. Under the fence and into the trees, and his natural clumsiness is coming through now; tripping over hidden roots and sliding in the leaves, rolling his ankle in a drainage ditch while Snake steadies them both. _Forward. Keep moving_. His nose is numb. His lips are numb, to the point that it’s hard to form words.

Whether from the chill or the panic, he can’t tell.

Into the car with the heat cranked to its highest setting, and finally, _finally_ , he can breathe.

Bumping down the dirt road, it becomes increasingly clear that something is wrong. Snake’s face is white – torture cell white, unsteady; bloodless – and he’s breathing in quick, shallow huffs through his nose.

“Let me drive.”

“Stay put.”

“Snake – ”

“Dammit, _stay put_. Watch the side mirror.”

His partner maneuvers them onto the highway with his left hand on the steering wheel. The other arm is pressed tight against his side, but that’s all he can make out in the dim light.

He scratches at his neck again, convulsively. Swallows hard. Feels someone else’s blood over the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, drying in the hot air. Crusted in the beds of his fingernails.

They drive through the dark, silent, breathing in the familiar wet-copper smell on both their skin.


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a familiar scenario, by now – Snake sitting on the closed lid of the toilet for easy access to the bathroom sink. The smell of betadine.

Otacon’s hands are perfectly steady, peeling down the suit to take a look.

It isn’t bad.

A fair amount of bleeding and it hurts like hell, judging from Snake’s white-knuckled grip on the toilet seat and the careful way he holds himself, but there’s no penetration into the abdomen – it’s a graze across the flank. A clean furrow through the muscles there; indignant, twitching like raw meat under his hand. Steady pressure with a clean towel. A few carefully-placed sutures and a butterfly bandage under a sterile Telfa pad; a neat rectangle of elastic medical tape.

They’ve been lucky, tonight. Again.

“It’s a bullet, Otacon,” says Snake, as he frets over the rent in the fiber-reinforced smart material. Never as impregnable as he wants it to be. It’s an equipment failure, of sorts, and he can’t help but take it personally. “Unless you line the whole fucking thing with Kevlar, there’s only so much the suit can do.”

They’ve had this talk before; the pros and cons of various types of body protection measures in the field. The unavoidable trade-offs of added bulk versus flexibility. Nothing is perfect, but God help him – he tries. Back to the drawing board.

He straightens up, tosses the towel into a corner of the little bathroom to be dealt with in the morning. Washes his hands while Snake examines his work, testing the edges of the bandage tape with probing fingertips. A professional eye; the ease of long practice. 

The routine is comforting, in its way. That they’ve done this enough times to have a working rhythm down is something that he should perhaps feel less sanguine about, but frankly, he doesn’t have the energy right now. 

“I’ll see what I can do with the hard drive,” he says. “Should be worth our time, at least.”

He catches sight of himself in the mirror, and stops. 

Absorbed in the task at hand, he’d nearly forgotten. The figure staring back at him looks like an extra from one of the low-budget zombie flicks he and Snake sometimes like to watch, when they’re in the mood for something they can both roll their eyes at. 

A wide, rust-colored streak along the side of his neck, smeared like oil paint; creeping along the hood of his sweatshirt. Droplets in a fine spatter over his cheekbone and left eyebrow. Glasses crooked. What looks like a piece of tree bark, in his hair.

_In and out, and done._

_No contact._

He feels the creeping edge of what might be a hysterical giggle rising like bile in his throat and swallows it down, for fear that he might begin crying and be utterly unable to stop.

In the mirror, Snake’s eyes flick briefly up to his.

“We need the photos, still.” Otacon could have sworn, for a moment, that he was going to say something else. He rubs a hand roughly over his face, exhales. Looks tired, again, under the too-bright overhead light. “Get me a floor plan, before the end of the week. I’ll go back in.”

This strikes him, already, as a spectacularly bad idea. But that’s an argument for another time, so he nods. Numb. 

The adrenaline is wearing off now for both of them and his body feels strangely heavy. Brain fogged and slow, like thinking through muddy sludge. Light-headed, almost, and he’s not the one who’s lost a good ten percent of his blood volume tonight – in the car seat, on the towel. Down the little drain in the bathroom sink.

His partner eases himself to his feet. Slowly, still pale.

“I’m gonna take some meds, and go lay down for a while.” He looks past Otacon to the empty space beside his head, expressionless. “You should get yourself cleaned up.”

“Oh,” he says, as if this is an answer. _Yes. Cleaned up_. The furtive hysteria, again. He forces it back, straightens his glasses with a hand that suddenly feels like it’s attached to someone else. 

The quiet feels different, tonight.

He turns away, rummages in the musty linen cupboard for a washcloth. Thinks briefly about taking a shower, but the effort involved feels entirely beyond him. Something stings, a little, behind his eyes.

“Advil’s in the kitchen,” he says without looking. Blinking hard, several times, until the salt-crystal burning eases a bit. His voice sounds very nearly normal, at least to his own ears. “There’s stronger stuff in the kit bag, if you need it.”

When he pivots back towards the sink, Snake is gone.

He makes quick work of the rest. Wets the cloth and scrubs his skin raw, as hot he can stand it, then ducks his head close to the faucet and uses a cupped hand to finish the job, splashing at the side of his face until the water runs clear in the dingy enamel basin. It’s good enough for now.

Discards his clothes in a haphazard pile for the laundry. Makes a mental note to get some bleach the next time they go out and crawls, exhausted, into the waiting nest of blankets on his side of the mattress. Glasses on the nightstand, distilling the periphery of the room into shadows and soft edges; buries his head under their heaviest quilt.

Once his eyes are closed, it all seems a bit more manageable.

He leaves the light on for longer than he wants to – until the wee hours of the morning – but Snake never comes to bed.

******

Back at the computer, he feels immeasurably better. 

Clear-headed again, safe. Familiar territory. His hair and face are clean; lunchtime sun streaming in through the window, coffee mug at his elbow. Fingers sure and steady on the keyboard, and a task to keep him occupied. The cloned hard drive is, indeed, a veritable gold mine of valuable information.

He breathes in the dusty mildew smell in the cramped little office, and feels oddly grateful for it. His double-socked feet are still cold.

A small price to pay, for normalcy.

It’s almost as if the previous night’s excursion had never happened, except for the way his body gives a little involuntary jump every time a door shuts in the hallway outside.

He’d risen this morning ( _finally_ – half past eleven, without anyone to nudge him awake at dawn) to find Snake dozing on the sofa and the apartment largely restored to normal working order. The front door is securely locked, as always. The laundry pile has been dealt with, and the various components of their first aid kit have been sorted and re-packed into their accustomed places. The bathroom smells of Clorox wipes.

Both guns Snake had carried last night are disassembled and gleaming on dish towels on the kitchen counter, spotlessly clean. The sneaking suit nearly dry, draped over the chair in Otacon’s office to await its latest round of repairs.

His partner has always been this way, so it no longer surprises him – jittery and restless in the endogenous chemical hangover after a mission, coming down hard from the involuntary hormonal rush that keeps him sharp in the field. Too keyed-up to sleep. His adrenals are exhausted and so is he, but it takes time for his body to sort through the conflicting signals it’s receiving and settle on “rest mode” for the night.

Ordinarily, it’s not a problem. There’s debriefing to be done, which has the welcome effect of keeping them both focused and productive for several hours after most field operations. Post-op analysis, equipment checks. Sifting through fresh intel. A hundred tedious-but-necessary tasks that they normally tackle together; sitting cross-legged on the floor of a poorly furnished safehouse, or on either end of a ratty apartment couch with the contents of a manila folder spread out between them.

But absent this, he’ll find something else to do – go for an ill-advised run along the main roads in the pitch-black part of the night, or break down every weapon in the house for a meticulous regimen of oiling and inspection that borders on obsessive. Once, memorably, he’d been desperate enough to smoke half a pack of cigarettes by an open bathroom window at an unusually fastidious Motel 6, which had triggered the fire alarm and resulted in the temporary evacuation of the entire building. 

This had resulted in a pointed discussion – at long last; shivering side-by-side in the parking lot at midnight – but not much has changed. The world keeps turning. Neither of them have ever been much for healthy coping mechanisms, so in some ways it’s a moot point. Snake tries his best.

He’s snoring in the living room, still, and Otacon taps as quietly as he can on the keys.

Not surprisingly, most of the juicy details they’re interested in are heavily encrypted, so the going is slow. The specs are there – _thank God_ – but once he has the right file isolated, wrestling them into a readable format takes the better part of an hour. This part always feels like a kind of invisible chess match, a battle of wills between himself and his faceless counterpart on the other side of the fight who’s determined to thwart his curiosity. 

The familiar rush of elation as the images finally load feels as heady as any drug; his own moment of triumph, far away from blaring alarms and the crack of bullets in the air.

_Jackpot._

He studies the diagrams and tiny jotted footnotes, anxious.

No major modifications jumping off the screen, at first glance – no beefed-up thrusters, no added railguns poking out at unseemly angles to give the thing a more imposing silhouette. The laser sighting mechanism and inner workings of the missile launchers look essentially unchanged, and the overall dimensions are almost identical to the iteration they’d seen on the U.S.S. Discovery.

But, no. There is a difference, albeit a small and puzzling one.

Upon closer inspection, he finds that the cockpit seating area has undergone some unusual changes. Less space, a lack of contouring for the pilot’s body, and a general “smoothing out” of the inside touch screens and manual control components. Almost as if the functionality in this area is an afterthought, or… not meant to be used, perhaps?

A quick check of the interior measurements confirms that unless the wayward D.C. law firm is planning to employ a racehorse jockey or a six-year-old child to wreak nuclear devastation on their chosen targets, there’s no way a human being is going to fit.

An unmanned design, then. 

No pilot – remote operation only, like a drone. Or else strictly AI-controlled.

He leans back in his chair, as if studying the screen from a slightly greater distance might cause this revelation to make more sense. This is an unexpected change, because it’s hard to see any obvious tactical benefit; if anything, it feels like a step backward from the prototype the Marines were using. 

There’s something they’re missing, here. Something big.

Something important.

But for the life of him, he can’t make the pieces fit.

_*grrroooorrrwl*_

His stomach, which has been on the receiving end of a half-cup of coffee and very little else in the past eighteen hours, pulls him back to more mundane considerations with an insistent gurgling sound that’s even louder than the squeak of the little wheeled computer chair each time he moves. He’s never been particularly wedded to a regular meal schedule, especially when he’s hot on the trail of some critical intel, but it’s been a long time coming and there are limits to what caffeine can sustain on its own. 

Especially now – _right now_ , without warning – when he’s trying hard not to think about heavy footfalls in a tiled hallway or the red-brick color of blood in the dark, and his hand shakes just a bit where he’s chewing absently at a hang nail. That creeping numbness, again. Low blood sugar layered over the after-effects of a stressful night – and just like that, he’s barely functional.

He’s forced to admit that perhaps, just this once, his body is making a reasonable point.

So he admits defeat, and wanders into the kitchen in search of sustenance.

There are Froot Loops in the cabinet and a half-gallon of convenience store milk that smells relatively fresh, so he rinses a bowl in the sink. Eyes it critically in the mid-afternoon daylight over the stove, picks at something crusted on the outer edge with his index finger. 

As he turns back to the fridge, his half-empty coffee mug shifts a bit under the faucet and makes an unfortunate clicking sound that freezes him in his tracks.

The ghost of a hard grip, on his shoulder.

An echo.

A voice.

_God dammit, Hal._

The bowl slips from his hand like water through a sieve, before his brain can quite catch up. 

He scrambles for it in a way that might have been comical to an observer, both hands batting at the air in quick, frantic movements like an inept juggler. Hoping to arrest its fall without waking his exhausted partner, but it’s too late – the kitchen floor at his feet is a mess of sharp edges, glittering like knives, and there are unmistakable signs of life from the living room. The cautious creak of old couch springs, followed by a muffled curse. 

Stillness, again, for a moment.

“Sorry,” he calls out, and means it. Peering across the countertop, bits of broken glass cupped in a paper towel; poking through, recalcitrant, to jeopardize his fingers. “Stay there, if you want – I’ve got it. Need me to bring you anything?”

He knows the answer before he asks. Snake is self-sufficient to the point of stubbornness, on a good day.

But this, too, is part of their routine.

Snake maneuvers himself upright with only a little difficulty. One hand on the arm of the sofa to help him stand straight, moving better after the first few steps. His footsteps recede toward the hall closet, rummaging for a brush and dustpan which he delivers to the kitchen without a word – glancing down at Otacon with his eyebrows raised, questioning. 

“Not a family heirloom or anything, I don’t think.” Otacon tries for a light tone, unsure if it lands the way he intended. “But, ah… yeah. Unit 604 is down one cereal bowl. Darn things are slippery, when they’re wet.”

His partner grunts, at that.

“So much for the security deposit.”

This is a recurring joke of theirs, since they’ve never yet managed to vacate a rental property of any kind without some degree of damage. Bloodstains on beige carpet. Accidental electric burns, from an overzealous engineering experiment. The charred remnants of a plastic container that was decidedly not oven-safe, forgotten on the stove. 

There’s some solace in this, all of it – the tired banality of apartment leases and his own oafish clumsiness, and the pale attempt at humor. This is familiar ground. _Normal_. He’s grateful for it.

In the grand scheme of things, broken dishes are the very least of their worries.

He dumps the last few shards into the garbage can, and rinses the dustpan in the sink to remove any bits of glass that might still remain. Inspects a tiny cut on his index finger – the only casualty, this time. The box of cereal still sits on the countertop, but it no longer holds any particular appeal.

He pushes it towards his partner anyway, who dumps out a dozen-odd colored bits of processed corn and sugar to eat dry from the palm of his hand. After a beat, he forces himself to do the same. Perhaps this is dinner, today. The faucet drips behind him, the stack of dishes underneath blessedly still and silent now. Well-behaved.

Snake – very carefully – does not ask how he’s feeling, and he returns the favor. The day feels brittle, still, like it might shatter if pressed too hard. 

They eat.

“So – ” His partner nods in the general direction of the office door, somehow managing to encompass everything Otacon has spent the past few hours working on in a single, economical gesture. Finishes off his handful of cereal, and digs in the box for more. “Are you gonna give me a SITREP, or what? Anything good?”

It’s a valid question, but one he’s not immediately sure how to answer. He chews and swallows, thoughtful. Pondering the implications – it feels like a long time ago, now. 

Then explains, as best he can.

Snake listens intently, as puzzled as he is by the apparent regression in the latest RAY design. 

“Huh. Why bother with an unmanned prototype?” Incisive, as always. The technological specifications underlying the change are, as he puts it, ‘above his pay grade,’ but from a purely military perspective, he sees the tactical disadvantages immediately. “Puts all kinds of limits on what they can do with it, right? Operating range, task complexity… the whole nine yards.”

“Maybe it’s the bargain-basement version,” Otacon offers wearily. “Buy one, get one free? But seriously, I have no idea. It just… doesn’t make any logical sense.”

His brain has been worrying away at this conundrum in the background, turning it over and over like a coin rubbed smooth in bright sunlight while his conscious self was engaged with broken glass and sugary cereal, and the only thing he can conclude is that they’re coming at it from the wrong direction. 

Maybe they need to figure out the objective, first – the purpose, the _why_ – before any of the other puzzle pieces will fit. The lawyers are still a baffling wrinkle. He thinks, perhaps, that their best course of action for now is to sit tight and catalogue the rest of the hard drive data before attempting anything more definite.

Waiting and planning, and cautious, piecemeal work.

No rush.

This is an eminently logical perspective, and he’s just begun to say so when he’s caught off-guard by an unfamiliar beeping noise from the office.

He cocks his head, unable to place it at first. Then –

“Oh, wait! Hang on a sec.” He shoves the last few Froot Loops into his mouth and hurries back to the computer desk, tapping at the keyboard to pull up the alert. “Ah… good news, maybe?”

Snake joins him, leaning over the chair to look. He angles the screen so they can both see, indicating the blinking yellow tag trundling its way smoothly down the highway. 

“Looks like our shipping crate is on the move.”


End file.
